The Legend
by Kang Xiu
Summary: The Tale of Florian Enjolras. When dragons and harps grow tiresome, why not try revolutions?
1. The Legend

Florian is, as the title suggests, a legend. It is difficult to explain him. I have dabbled with Les Mis and the supernatural before, but Florian takes it to another level. *pulls faces at him* See what you think.  
  
The Legend  
  
He put golden dust in his hair and in his lashes, and stood straight. He wore green waistcoats and green ribbons to tie back his hair. He played on pipes, and dreamed of playing on harps. He made a harp once, from a drowned girl lying on riverbank, but he couldn't play the harp; it left him and played on its own. He stole all the wisdom in the world from an old man, and learnt to play his pipes with magic in his breath. He called rats to him with his pipes, and led them into the river. He drank dragon's blood and learnt to speak all the languages in the world. But he grew tired of Ireland and Germany, and came to France.  
  
He tied his hair in place with blue ribbons, and took on a new accent, and looked about himself on the streets to see what he could fashion into a legend. He saw the discontent, the poverty, and the misery, and chose that.  
  
He put more dust in his hair, and painted his face pale with white lillies, and discarded the green waistcoat for a red one. He played his pipes for men instead, and they followed as closely as the rats.  
  
He led his men with triumph and excitement fluttering in his chest, and fought against the Kings of all the worlds of all the times. He fought with scraps of Fionn and Siegfried in his carbine, and finally broke his pipes for ammunition. He stood before a firing squad and let them shoot him, for heroes and legends never escape death with their magic. He saw a thousand tales drip out with his blood.  
  
He felt a soft disappointment, for it was clear he should not win his revolution, but he understood men must die to accomplish things, and he knew that he would inspire other men to complete his legend. He remembered how proud he had been when he made his harp, and when he walked through the ring of fire with his sword drawn, and he accepted that he couldn't do all things by himself.  
  
He stood back to look at his beginning, and watch for the man or woman who would complete it, and frowned, for no one was remembering it. He wandered about Paris to see if anyone was taking notice, and no one was. He went back to the place where all his men died, and picked the pieces of his pipes out from among the bodies. He remade them, standing in that place, and shook his head in frustration to see that all the brave men he'd called with them were dying brave deaths for nothing.  
  
Then he painted a sign, with gold and blue paint on birchwood, and hung it on the door of the café. He hung it so that only the proper hero could see it. Someone would find his sign and complete his legend, surely, but if no one did, he would not feel surprise. The men here were weak.  
  
He was ill of France.  
  
He changed his red waistcoat for a green jerkin, and placed a green cap with a single crimson feather on his golden head, and left in disgust for Old England. He darkened his face with oak, cut his hair short, and put away his pipes for a bow. 


	2. Inspiration

A short piece. And yes, Florian is both the Pied Piper and Robin Hood, as well as Fionn and Siegfried and the Harper from "The Bonny Swans", depending on what suits his fancy.  
  
Inspiration  
  
The poet amused him. The men called him Jehan, and as far as Florian could tell, it was his first name. The others went by surnames, but everyone called the poet Jehan.  
  
He wrote nice poetry, Florian thought, draping himself over a chair to watch. Rather silly poetry about spring and love and dreams that couldn't come true, but far better than the *nuisances* who tried to write what Florian had done into ballads.  
  
Jehan looked up at him at last, lifting his quill off the parchment. "Enjolras?"  
  
"What are you writing?"  
  
"A story-poem, about a girl who falls in love with an angel who was thrown out of heaven."  
  
"Dear Lord." He smiled to himself, closing his eyes, and said softly, "I must do that some day. I'd fancy a pair of wings."  
  
"Enjolras?" Jehan asked again.  
  
"It's nothing. But you must let me see your poem when you're finished."  
  
"Of course."  
  
Florian took his legends from the air and the land. He used the things he saw and heard, and he had never yet turned down a chance to play with something new and perhaps turn it into a masterpiece.  
  
He was awaiting the poet's work with pleasure. 


	3. Once Upon a Dream

A recalling. Florian is likely to be composed entirely of 200-word drabbles.  
  
Once Upon a Dream  
  
He stood on the bridge over the river Seine. It seemed an appropriate place. There was something about the words 'bridge over the river Seine' that pleased him.  
  
It was a warm night, quite dark, and the stars printed clearly in the sky. He was looking for a certain constellation, and when he found it, he smiled softly, pleased.  
  
He leaned back against the bridge, bracing his arms along the stone. Horses ran so much faster than humans. How wonderful it had been, back then.  
  
It was amusing to him that some of the Them compared him to Apollo, and yet he had only been a companion to Apollo. He hadn't made Apollo's mistake of falling in love, and had no trees to call his own. He slew no serpents, but he did share a love of music with Apollo.  
  
And he did have that lovely constellation. It was terribly flattering. All those little points of beautiful white fire, for him. For him, pinpricks glowing in the black velvet of the August sky, an honour from Apollo's father.  
  
Florian shaded his eyes and smiled again at Sagittarius. It was better to be half-god, half-horse than all god and never gallop. 


	4. Three Roads

Contemplation.  
  
Three Roads  
  
He stood at a place where three roads met. Three roads, he thought, for three men. He made a first, ages old, standing against the sun so that it made the gold dust in his hair glow. He played his pipes softly for the sun, waiting for the other two.  
  
The boy came blithely, and had his arms wrapped about him, and he looked beautiful and holy as an angel in his happiness. "There is Love," Florian told himself. He recognised the boy as the one Ami whose name he knew:  
  
Love was played by Jehan.  
  
"That is two of three," Florian murmured. "Hello, poet."  
  
"Enjolras!" Jehan startled.  
  
He startled again as the sound of cursing came down the third street. Another beautiful boy, but this one angry, this one with a knife in his sleeve. Florian nodded.  
  
"There is Fury, and I am Age. Three men for three roads."  
  
Montparnasse glared at them both, and went back into the city. Jehan looked up at Florian with his sweet, innocent face, worried. Then he told both the sky and Florian, 'Elaine', making it treasured, and he too was gone.  
  
And then there was only Age, standing alone and playing pipes. 


End file.
